Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [120]
Monserrat smiled—a final smile of triumph.
“My congratulations, Colonel. You nearly achieved the perfect crime.”
Chapter 93
CARROLL WAS UNSURE which way to head inside the burning tenement building.
He choked on a thick gust of smoke, and thought he was going to be sick. His lungs chafed as if they’d been rubbed down by sandpaper.
Crackling reports of M-16s, booming incendiary bombs rang against his eardrums. He could make out the sharp repeating sound of the rotors of the Cobra helicopter that had landed on the rooftop. Monserrat and Colonel Hudson were inside the building….
Carroll coughed and gasped as he climbed sets of steep winding stairs. All around him, flames curled at shadows, throwing off violently flickering light and heat. The shooting pain in his legs was unbearable. Something felt wrong, cracked at the base of his spine.
At the head of the stairs, there was a heavy metal door blocking his way. It stuck at first—then Carroll put his shoulder into it hard. He shouldered the stubborn door a second time.
The metal door finally swung open with a loud shriek.
The rooftop was revealed. Carroll’s eyes widened.
The crimson taillights of a U.S. military helicopter shone and sparkled in the haze of smoke.
The Army Cobra was being readied for takeoff. The rotors were spinning out thunder and sparks.
Somewhere in the smoke shrouding the rooftop, Carroll heard voices. The voices were strident and angry.
They originated from off to his left, beyond a high brick retaining wall. Fear raised the hammers of Carroll’s heart. Fear because he was finally beginning to understand.
“You see, you must see that governments of the past are no longer viable. The elected governments are mere illusions. They are ghosts of a sentimentalized reality. You must understand that at least. There are no more democracies.” The voice was filled with the tension of the moment.
The second voice was harsh, erupting like another gunshot in the air.
The wind muffled the exact words. Whatever the second person had to say was whipped away by the roar of the chopper and the wind that was shuffling the clouds.
Carroll pressed his body closer to the brick wall. He edged toward the voices.
The conversation became clearer now. Each word pierced the noise and swirling smoke. His heart ached from the relentless pressure.
“I love this country,” one of the two shouted above the wind. “I hate what it did to the veterans after the war. I hate what some of the leaders did. But I love this country.”
At that moment, Carroll saw them both. Just as he thought he was beginning to understand, he realized that he understood nothing.
Colonel David Hudson. The same man pictured in all the FBI library and Pentagon photographs tall, strikingly blond … “the consummate military commander,” according to his classified records.
And the other …
Dear God, the other.
Carroll felt something vital subside deep inside him. It wasn’t really a physical thing. It wasn’t a bone, or a pain in the heart, a collapse of muscle. It was worse than that. Suddenly, he remembered the first time he’d experienced the horror of death—his father’s death in Florida. He remembered his exact feeling on the night Nora had died.
His mouth was dry and his head a cave of sad, hopeless chaos. His emotions were wilder than the guerrilla war raging everywhere around him. He was without speech and numb. All he could do was stare straight ahead.
Nothing could have prepared him for this awful moment. All his years as a policeman hadn’t prepared him.
The man Colonel David Hudson had addressed as Mon-serrat was Walter Trentkamp…. Except the clenched, shadowy face Carroll saw on this man was almost a stranger’s. The face was ruthless and uncaring.
Carroll’s world wheeled violently and turned on its side. Whatever sense of reality he had left, shattered. He closed his eyes. He raked one hand over his smoke-blackened face.
His mind’s eye seemed to flood with exploding light. Uncle fucking Walter. It was the worst hurt, the worst betrayal